


Castiel Rising

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, Episode: s11e11 Into the Mystic, M/M, POV Castiel, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What’s the matter?</i>  Dean says.  <i>You don’t think you deserve to be saved?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel Rising

_Then, yes._

One blinding moment and then he’s falling, slammed down and down into the screaming black.

He thinks, _What have I done?_   He thinks, _Dean_.

And then it’s over. It’s done. He's gone.

***

Castiel understands time on a celestial scale: the sweeping stretches of it in Heaven, the depths of its crawling passage through Hell.

He and his garrison fought their way through the mires of this dark place for forty years before they found Dean Winchester, broken and shining pure through the cracks in his soul. In his true form, with his own eyes, Castiel saw Dean for the first time – the light and the dark of him, the goodness seething at his core undimmed by Hell’s bloody shroud.

That memory lives in him now where he sits in the cage with what remains of Michael. Lucifer hadn't been exaggerating his decline; Michael is ruined, his grace putrid with corruption. But perhaps that's how he’s always been, perhaps Castiel isn’t the first angel made wrong.

It gives him some comfort to think that he's not alone in his failure.

***

Lucifer visits. Often. He enjoys parading Castiel's true vessel in front of him, regaling him with tales of how he’s deceiving the Winchesters. Truth or lies? It's impossible to tell. Castiel reminds himself that it doesn’t matter; he’s given them Lucifer, the shining one, the light bearer, and they must wield the weapon as best they can against the Darkness. He knows, if anyone can do it, it’s Sam and Dean Winchester.

“I'm sorry to tell you this,” Lucifer says on one visit, trailing fingertips and fire across the bars of the cage. Castiel feels it burn in the ribs he no longer owns. It’s built to inflict suffering, the cage, and Castiel suffers; Lucifer ensures that he does. “I'm sorry to tell you,” he repeats, for emphasis, “that Dean's moved on. He’s infatuated with someone else now, a new paramour.”

Castiel doesn't respond. He never does; there's never any need. Lucifer is his own best audience.

“It's Amara,” Lucifer says, then broadens his hands in self-deprecation. “I know. Not exactly a plot twist, is it?” He shrugs when Castiel refuses to rise to the bait. “Dean's _attracted_ to her, bonded to the Darkness in some distasteful human way. I haven’t worked out how, yet, but I will. In time.” He tilts his head in a parody of Castiel. “Or perhaps I won’t? It doesn’t really matter how they’re bonded, so long as I can use Dean to bait the trap. They’ll both be dead in the end, after all.”

Castiel stirs at that despite his good intentions, a bristling of his broken wings. It’s painful in its own way, but not as painful as the thought of Lucifer sacrificing Dean to defeat the Darkness.

“Now, now,” Lucifer scolds, “don’t get mad, Castiel. You knew this would be a dirty fight, that we’d need all the advantages we could get. No point in getting sentimental over a couple of here-today-dust-tomorrow humans, is there? Besides,” he throws out his arms wide and Castiel watches the way the tie – _his_ tie; he remembers buying it – flips back as Lucifer moves. “It’s not like it’s _my_ fault Dean’s hot for Amara. I’m just working with what I’ve got.” He brings his face close to the bars. “He’s very trusting, isn’t he? Your Dean. Opens right up when 'Cas' asks him to spill his guts.” He pauses, as if considering. “It must hurt, I suppose, knowing he’s forsaken all of that – forsaken _you_ , Castiel – for a big slice of _empty_.” He glances down at his vessel. “Or maybe he just prefers Amara's packaging?”

Castiel watches Lucifer in silence; none of this matters. Dean, what Castiel feels for him – it’s as transient as a sunset, beautiful in the moment and then gone forever. He’s known that from the start of this… What to call it? Infatuation? No, that doesn’t do it justice. Love, then. If angels can feel love, he will call it love.

“But you’re not really an angel anymore, are you?” Lucifer says, plucking his thoughts from the air. Disgust sharpens his features. “All I see when I look at you is _this_.” He gestures to his vessel in disdain. “I don’t know what you are anymore, Castiel. You’re an abomination.”

An angel who loves, Castiel thinks. Yes, that would be an abomination to the cold purity of Lucifer’s Heaven – and to Raphael’s, to Naomi’s, to Metatron’s. To God’s? Perhaps. But abomination or not, he is what he is and he can’t be anything different.

However.

“You said you could defeat the Darkness.” They’re the first words Castiel has spoken since _yes_. “So why haven’t you?”

Lucifer steps back, surprised. “Do you doubt me?”

“Always.”

“Castiel,” Lucifer admonishes. “You always did have too little faith in your brothers. You need to learn more patience.” He gives an icy smile. “I suppose eternity in here will teach you that, if nothing else.”

Castiel turns away, shifts his attention to Michael. He wonders if he has the power to end Michael’s existence and whether it would be a mercy or a crime do so; eternity stretches out before them both and he doesn’t know if he dares face it alone.

***

Years roll on, mere weeks on Earth.

Lucifer’s visits become sporadic, and then stop. Castiel doesn’t know how to interpret this. It could be that Lucifer is dead, that the Darkness has won. Or it could be that Lucifer has ascended to Heaven and the End Times are upon them once more.

Perhaps it’s already over and the angels walk an Earthly paradise stripped bare of humanity?

He’s not sorry to miss that; paradise to him is something very different. It’s warmth, love, human affection: it's _Dean_. It’s unachievable, of course, but worth striving for nonetheless. It’s that yearning that drove him to rebel in the first place, to understand what he was capable of doing. What he was capable of _feeling_. For that alone, his vision of paradise is priceless; for the warmth its memory still brings him in this cold, dark place it remains his most precious possession.

Castiel would rather dream of his own paradise than walk free in Lucifer’s icy reality.

***

Hell changes.

It’s subtle, but he can feel it even here in the depths where the cage hangs suspended in its eternal void. Hell changes. It writhes in protest, it howls in resistance.

Something is coming.

He’s afraid it’s the Darkness, that even the pits of Hell will be consumed in the end.

Or perhaps it’s his mind that’s changing. It’s been decades now, since Rowena’s spell flung him here, and his reason could be fading. Angels were not born for imprisonment, for Hell, after all. Perhaps, soon, he will become like Michael – insensible to what or where he is, truly a broken creature.

He fights back as best he can, pushes Hell’s howling out of his mind, and focuses his thoughts on the light: on Dean, on his courage, his stoicism, his _humanity_. His beautiful soul, the bond they shared – the one he can still feel, even here in the cold dark, stretched gossamer thin. But it was forged in Hell, that bond, and this place cannot break it.

If anything, it feels stronger.

Perhaps it’s a trick, a whisper in the dark designed to deceive, but Castiel can feel his bond with Dean grow brighter. He closes his eyes against that hope; hope is dangerous here, fed by Lucifer’s lies. Hope can crush, and yet…

And yet.

He curls in on himself, feels phantom arms wrap around phantom legs, and dips a facsimile of his head to his knees. He feels his phantom vessel around him, containing him, and wonders whether this is a dream.

_Cas._

It’s Dean’s voice. Impossible, here.

_Cas._

He closes his eyes against the pain of that unbearable hope, brighter and fiercer than anything the cage could inflict.

_Cas, it’s me._

He can’t help himself, his head lifts – not _his_ head, he has no vessel – and Dean is standing before him in the cage. He's bloody and beaten, a gleaming blade in his hand. And he’s beautiful, his soul is shining clear and pure.

“No,” Castiel protests, because this is a lie – either Lucifer’s or his own – and he can't bear it. “No, you’re not real.”

Dean – it’s _not_ Dean – reaches out a hand and clasps Castiel’s arm. He feels his skin burn as Dean’s fingers grip him tight.

 _What’s the matter?_ Dean says. _You don’t think you deserve to be saved?_

And then he’s rising, up and up. Dean’s hand is fire on his arm and they’re rising together. And it’s impossible. And he’s gasping. He’s gasping for air. And that’s not possible either, because he doesn’t have lungs, he has no vessel, he’s incorporeal, he’s—

Coughing.

He’s coughing up his lungs, and someone’s rolling him onto his side and hammering his back. And the air is acrid and sweet and warm on his skin.

_His skin?_

And there’s dirt under his fingers, and noise, a cacophony, and through it all a voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I got you. I got you, Cas.”

“Dean, we gotta go.” Another voice. It’s been so long… “Can you carry him?”

“What? No. Give it a minute.” Then, close to his ear, a whisper. “Just take a breath, man. Just breathe. It’s okay. It’s over. You’re back.”

His eyes open. He has eyes, and they open, and above him he sees a night sky and stars and then Dean. Bloody, beaten and with his eyes smiling.

“Hey,” Dean says, “there you go.”

He can’t understand what’s happening. “Lucifer…?”

“Yeah, he’s pissed. Can you stand? We gotta go.”

Can he stand? He has no idea, but nods his head, or tries to. It’s so strange, folded back into this vessel, and he can feel Lucifer _everywhere_ , like he’s bent it all out of shape. But even so, it’s home.

It’s _home_.

“Dean,” he says, clearer this time, reaching out for his shoulder as Dean hauls him up to sit. Dean’s close, he’s got an arm around Castiel’s back and one hand on his face. He can feel Dean’s thumb move against the side of his neck, his fingers in his hair. The sensations are so intense, so visceral, he shivers. “Dean, what did you do?”

“What does it look like?” Dean says. “I brought you back.”

He just stares. “Why?”

“Guys?” It’s the other voice – Sam, of course. “Can we save the emo moment for later? We have to go. _Now_.”

Dean nods. “He’s right. On your feet – Sam, help me.”

And then he’s half walking, mostly being dragged, out through a pair of gates – is this Stull Cemetery? – and being manhandled into the back of a car. _The_ car. Dean’s car, the Impala. And Dean’s right next to him in the backseat as they drive, fast.

“Here,” Dean says, shoving something into his hands. “Bet you’re thirsty.”

He is, his body is parched. He guzzles from the bottle until Dean lifts it from his hands. “That’s enough, dude.” He takes the bottle away, but doesn’t move himself. He’s so close Castiel can feel the heat of his body and it’s almost overwhelming after so long in the cold, without a vessel, without any kind of contact. He starts shaking. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, except that he’s somehow been raised from Hell.

By Dean.

Impossible.

“C’mere,” Dean says and pulls him closer, wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him tight.

“Dean,” he breathes into the fabric of his jacket, “what happened?”

“Like I said, I saved you.”

“But— The Darkness?”

“Top of the to-do list.”

Castiel rears back. “What? No.”

“Easy,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Shaking his head, Castiel turns to look out the other window. Everything is dark. Perhaps she’s taken over the world already. “I meant for you to use me – _Lucifer_ – as a weapon.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. “Screw that.”

“Dean—”

“Just _no_. Okay?” He's angry and hurting. Castiel can see that now. He’s hurting so much it’s carved into his face, a pain harsher than any Castiel has seen before.

“Oh no,” he says, softening and afraid. Sam is still alive, at least, but something terrible has happened to Dean. “What’s is it?” he asks quietly. “Dean, you look devastated. What happened?”

Dean stares at him like he might throw a punch. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Not even remotely.”

“What happened?” Dean shoves Castiel's shoulder and then clutches his fingers into his lapels and drags him back in. “What _happened_? You fuckin’ said yes to Lucifer is what happened, you dipshit.”

“But—Dean, defeating the Darkness is far more important than any one angel.” He huffs a sigh. “Especially a broken one.”

Dean’s mouth clamps into a line and from the front seat Sam says, “Dude, don’t punch him.”

Castiel looks at Sam, but then his chin is caught in Dean’s grip and he’s turned back to face him. “First,” Dean says in a tone that brooks no argument, “you are _not_ broken. Second—” His voice catches and it’s a moment before he adds, so quietly Castiel can barely hear him over the rumble of the engine, “you _are_ important, Cas. To me, you are.”

Curling his fingers into Dean’s jacket, Castiel holds on in case this impossible dream is snatched away and revealed to be a lie. He thinks it would kill him if it was; he’s never felt more exposed. “Dean…”

“We’ll gank the Darkness, Cas, we will. But if you think I'm gonna do it without you—"  Dean breaks off, swallows hard. " _Christ_ , Cas.” And then he's hauling him into a hug, crushing him hard against his chest. “Don't you  _ever_ do anything that fucking stupid again. You hear me?”

He nods, stiff in Dean’s rough embrace, dazed. “I didn’t realize—”

“I know.” Dean’s breath tickles Castiel’s ear, his hand warm on the back of his neck. “I know, Cas, Lucifer told me— That _dick_.” He takes a breath. “Look, I get why you did it. I do. But you were wrong, you were so fucking wrong.” He pulls back, just enough that he can look Castiel right in the eye. “I’d rather go down fighting with you at my side, Cas, than win without you. And I can’t…” He rests his forehead against Castiel’s, murmurs the next words into the space between them, “I went to Hell to bring you back, Cas. Don’t you dare fucking leave me again.”

Moved beyond words, Castiel just presses his palm to Dean’s face, strokes a thumb over his cheekbone. He can’t imagine – he literally has no idea – how Dean has done this, how this extraordinary man has pulled him from the cage. It should be impossible, it _is_ impossible, but Dean's made a habit out of defying the impossible and Castiel believes him capable of anything.

There is one thing Castiel _does_ know, though – one thing that’s as clear to him now as the stars, as the rotation of the Earth, as the turn of the seasons, and it’s this: “I’ll never leave you again, Dean Winchester. I swear it.”

Dean sags against him, his arms tightening and then letting go as he pulls back. “Then we’re good,” he says, tension draining out of his voice and leaving him weary. “Then everything will work out, Cas. Everything’s gonna be fine now you're back.”

“Yes,” Castiel says and touches two fingers to Dean’s bruised face, letting a tender thread of grace flow between them. He’s not strong enough to heal him yet, but Dean doesn’t seem to care, he just watches Castiel with open affection, with relief. With… With love, Castiel realizes in wonder. With _love_.

And then Dean sighs – “Fuck, I’m done” – and sinks back against the seat, his eyes closing. He looks exhausted, which is hardly surprising given the miracle he’s performed.

“Sleep,” Castiel says, pressing the words and his lips against Dean’s temple. “Rest, now.”

Dean sighs, his lips curving into a drowsy smile, “You too,” he says.

But Castiel doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to drink in the world he thought he'd lost: he wants to feel, to taste, to just _be_. So he settles back, nestling his arm against Dean’s warm shoulder, and watches the lights skim past the car, watches Sam drive them home, steady and sure, and feels Dean thread his fingers between Castiel’s, squeezing his hand tight. Castiel thinks he might drown in the vast wave of fondness that sweeps over him.

On the horizon the first paling of dawn is turning the sky from black to inky blue. Morning is coming, driving back the darkness. It will _always_ drive back the darkness, Castiel thinks.

He smiles and feels the sun rising inside him too, fierce and hopeful as the new day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed it! :) You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)


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